


The Kidnapping

by SkipandDi (ladyflowdi)



Series: Infiltrate Interludes [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Attempted Kidnapping, Drama, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 09:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4782632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyflowdi/pseuds/SkipandDi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucy wakes up with the distinct impression something is wrong. She could be late for school or theatre practice. Maybe she’d forgotten to finish her chores, or her homework; then again that’s nothing new. It must be something else.</p>
<p>It could be that she’s on the ground, behind a tree, with a skull-splitting headache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Kidnapping

**Author's Note:**

> One of our favorites! Skip and I enjoyed writing this SO much, because until this moments the kids know what their parents do, but don't KNOW what their parents do.

Five Times the Holmes Children Were Almost Kidnapped

Sherlock didn’t hate Franz -- that would have been ridiculous, and completely unwarranted. He just didn’t see the point in keeping the man around now that he’d outlived his usefulness. Let him go put his services to good use elsewhere.

John didn’t see it that way; neither did the kids. The three oldest had banded together in a show of rebellious unity under the _Keep Franz_ banner. Kaden, the bandwagoner, was supporting in spirit, though he wasn’t yet capable of verbalizing as such. They thought Franz was hilarious and a better cook than either of their parents (the latter of which was true enough -- Sherlock was famous for wandering away from dinner to do something more interesting, and everything John made seemed better suited to a mess hall).

Franz himself seemed largely indifferent to whether he had any formal job security, though he clearly enjoyed spending time around the kids. Sherlock had ‘made an effort’ to accept the dog, and his obligation to clean out Monica’s food box, and to fix the damage from almost all of Andrew’s ‘experiments’, and even managed not to go on a massacre when his violin was found ‘taking a bath’ in the sink. In his opinion he’d made enough of an effort to last him a lifetime. 

For this reason it’s John who answers the phone when it rings with Franz’s number, and John who instead gets to first hear Lucy crying hysterically down the line. “Luc, Lucy,” he says, trying to calm her down long enough to explain what’s going on. Sherlock’s already put on his coat and holds out John’s, who shrugs into it while alternating hands on the phone. “Just tell me where you are,” he orders sternly, which in this family is a comforting sound. “Just stay at the park; we’ll be there in ten minutes.”  
They make it in four.

They turn the corner and see the kids sitting on the park benches, huddled together, trying to protect each other. While they may not know yet how this started, Sherlock does know it’s going to end with him beating someone unconscious and quite possibly dead. One glance at John tells him that makes him the more friendly of the two. Lucy is hiccuping tears into Sherlock’s coat as soon as he takes Kaden from her arms, utterly fragile in a way he knows she despises. Kaden is crying too, soft snuffles that are more in sympathy with his siblings than because he understands what’s going on.

Monica has latched herself to John’s side, eyes wide and face pale, twitchy like she’s looking for someone to round the corner and finish what they started; Andrew --

\--his son has a massive bruise on the side of his face, from a right-handed man, a thug, someone with no compunction about hitting a twelve year old boy who hadn’t even started to grow into his feet and who still retained his odd habit of squinting when he looked right as a souvenir from when his right eye was weaker than his left. John is testing the injury carefully, tilting Andrew’s head to examine the other side of his face, which is scratched up from where it hit the gravel. “Who did this to you?” John says, and his voice is in his unique low prelude to yelling.

“He was an ex-con,” Andrew says, shakily, and by God Sherlock really is going to kill someone. “From Manchester originally, though he hasn’t been back since he was sixteen, late twenties, father was a mechanic… he was hired to come after us…I don’t know by who, I don’t think it’s from any of the cases you’re working on now.” He flinches as John wipes some of the dirt away from a scrape near his eye. “He didn’t need all of us, just one, he went after Lucy.”

Sherlock’s grip tightens uncontrollably on his daughter, who peeks one eye out from where she’s ensconced in his arms and looks down at her brother. “Andrew saved me. He jumped on the guy’s back.”

John snags his son forward and hugs him close; for once Andrew doesn’t protest. “Where’s Franz?” John asks into Andrew’s curls.

“Over there,” Monica says, pointing across the street to where their giant Swedish nanny is dragging back a man who is bleeding, bruised, and very obviously on the verge of crying from pain.

“I’m sorry,” Franz says very seriously when he reaches them. “I was distracted, it was unacceptable.”

John looks up at Franz, and over at the thug, who is nursing his shoulder and trying to subtlety shift Franz’s weight off it. Franz responds by tightening his grip, provoking an utterly pathetic whimper. “How were you distracted?” John asks.

“Kaden was eating handfuls of sand again,” Franz tells them.

Sherlock lifts his hand off Lucy’s shoulder to poke a finger in Kaden’s mouth, which is lined with sand, and also a pebble. “This is really getting to be an issue.”

“We need to call Lestrade,” John sighs, letting Andrew go reluctantly.

“Already did,” Lucy says. “Franz told me to.”

“Well thank you for that,” John tells Franz. “And you don’t have to apologize -- you did exactly what you were supposed to.”

Sherlock, meanwhile, scowls down at the criminal. “You, on the other hand-”

Franz moves his hand viciously, and the thug cries out pathetically. “What did we talk about?” Franz asks.

“I’m sorry,” the man says. “I’m sorry, I -- ah, ah, I’m sorry I hit you, and tried to kidnap you-- _ah, oh God_.”

.  
John can't remember ever being so tired.

He is weary right to the bone and ever-so-sore, his muscles complaining every time the cabbie drives over a pot hole, a bump in the road. He smells of days on end without bathing, of running through torrential rain and sticky mud, of sweat and horse lye and _Sherlock_ and his damp, filthy coat. He's hungry, and exhausted, and all he's been able to think about are his children. They're a million-point-two pounds richer, which is the _only_ reason John agreed to this in the first place -- properly invested and it would go very far indeed, a comfortable nest egg to keep the children in trainers and food on the table, perhaps even to expand their home and buy 221D, which had sat vacant for years.

They stop in front of Mycroft's Downing Street townhome and John opens one eye, glances across the seat to Sherlock who doesn't look as if he's slept in three days, and who is wearing the same cat-in-the-cream smile he's had since he returned the ruby necklace to the King with a flourish, to the man's overwhelming, tearful gratitude. "You've got to stop that," John says, unsnapping his seat belt. "You're going to give them a fright, you know how Lucy hates it when you look Machiavellian."

"I _feel_ Machiavellian, John -- we practically stole that man's money," Sherlock says, stepping out of the cab. "A million pounds for a ridiculous ruby necklace that we proved wasn't a ruby at all."

"Yes, because I'm sure he's terribly sorry he's now the owner of the world's largest red diamond," John replies sensibly, steadying himself against the cab before the trudge across the walk. 

Kaden opens the door -- that he's nearly naked, despite what appears to be a good effort on Mahdavi's part if the blue jumper is anything to say, is less surprise and more exasperation. The little boy shrieks on top of his lungs, alerting the entire street to their presence, and throws himself into John's arms, squeezing for all he's worth before tackling Sherlock around the knees until he lifts him, squealing, into the air. Monica comes rushing from down the hall and wraps John up around the middle while the older two hang back until John beckons them forward, squeezes Lucy gently before she hugs Sherlock, presses a kiss into Andrew's hair that makes him smile. Even little Arthur comes running, dragging Mahdavi by two fingers, and John laughs as she gives him a huge, grateful smile.

They're all already talking, undoubtedly tattling on one another horribly, and John lends half an ear to their stories and adventures as Mycroft's maids and Mahdavi help them get their things together. Trousers are found for Kaden, shoes for everyone, the girls getting their brushes and toiletries together, and then just like that they're bundled up in the cab and headed home, squeezed in with Kaden on Sherlock's lap. John can't help the joy that comes up in him to see his family all together again.

"It was wonderful dad, you'd have loved it," Lucy is saying when John tunes back in to her. "He's got a black eye and everything."

" _Lucy_ ," Andrew snaps

Alarm bell. He glances at each of the children, and as no one has a black eye -- "I'm sorry, say again?"

" _Uncle Mycroft._ You should have seen him. Papa, you'd have been proud."

Sherlock meets his eyes over Monica's head, where it's tucked under John's chin. "What exactly did Uncle Mycroft do?"

"Haven't you been listening?" Lucy demands. Next to her, Andrew rubs his face wearily.

"I just spent four solid days chasing after your papa all over the Romanian countryside, love," John replies calmly. "Give your dad a break."

Rather instead she gives him a look of mulish annoyance, a look she'd picked up directly from Sherlock. Luckily, Andrew cut in before she could dig the hole deeper for herself. "Don't get angry, Dad."

"Why would I get angry? I'm getting angry sitting here waiting for you to tell me just what it is that happened, as something very obviously _did happen_ ," John says reasonably.

The children all look at each other, even Kaden.

"Uncle Mycroft has been taking us to school in his limousine," Andrew says slowly. "On the first day everything was fine, but on Tuesday someone was following us, and on Wednesday someone tried to take Monica."

John hugs her against him in reflex, so tightly that she squeaks, " _Dad_!" and when he pulls down her jacket and brushes the sleeve of her t-shirt up its to reveal a perfect man's hand print, with five dark bruises where he'd squeezed. He looks across to Sherlock in a panic only to find him already dialing his phone. 

"Everyone was okay!" Lucy breaks in, patting Monica's shoulder comfortingly. "It was some protestor guy who was trying to get leffridge, like the guy from the park! Or at least that's what Uncle Mycroft said. He grabbed Monica's arm when we all got out and Uncle Mycroft _pow_ ," she mimes a punch, "got him square in his noodle. He screamed like a little girl. The protestor guy, not Uncle Mycroft."

Kaden's eyes get enormous. "Daddy he sayd the f-word," he announces, obviously perfectly at ease selling his uncle out. "A _lot._ "

Monica giggles, wet and damp against John's shoulder. "Uncle Mycroft put forty eight pounds in the swear jar."

"And then the protestor guy tried to fight back," Lucy cuts in, "and Uncle Mycroft took him down like he was MI6, all _James Bond_ secret agent man."

The joy of being home is overwhelmed with the sharpest guilt John has ever felt, like a punch to the solar plexis. He's squeezing Monica against him even as Sherlock snarls into his phone, "--you'd better be Mycroft, or I'm going to hunt you down like--"

"It isn't Uncle Mycroft's fault!" Lucy exclaims, even as Monica lifts her head, adds, "Besides, Franz put the guy in the hospital, so it isn't like he's coming back after us."

They're almost to Baker Street, and in the silence Kaden says, "Pee-yoo, You smell, Daddy."

"Yeah Dad, I didn't want to say anything," Monica says, from around his chin, "but what in the world have you been rolling around in?"

"Sheeps dung," Andrew replies, before John can open his mouth. "Also a particular weed that grows only in Romania -- the selshef flower, identified by that tart, tangy aroma."

"It smells like fish," Lucy says, lip curled and nose wrinkled. "And rain."

"Yes, thank you," John announces. "We’re quite aware that we smell. We also haven't eaten since Thursday, and now your papa is going to jail because he's going to kill your uncle."

The kids all shout in protest, and are still arguing vehemently with the two of them when they drive up to the flat. Mycroft's limousine is already parked outside, and as they pull up Mycroft steps out and whatever protest John had been about to utter dies in his throat.

Mycroft is black and blue. His right arm is in a sling, his left eye is swollen shut, and by the cuts on his face he looks like he went three rounds with a professional boxer and lost.

John glares sharply at the kids and Lucy smiles sheepishly. "Well, the guy wasn't very happy he got punched."

.  
Lucy wakes up with the distinct impression something is wrong. She could be late for school or theatre practice. Maybe she’d forgotten to finish her chores, or her homework; then again that’s nothing new. It must be something else.

It could be that she’s on the ground, behind a tree, with a skull-splitting headache. 

It could be that her baby brother is _missing_. 

She drags herself up to her knees, uses her hands against the tree-trunk to steady herself. The world tilts alarmingly. _Phone_ , she thinks desperately. _Call Papa, call Daddy, Uncle Mycroft, Uncle Geoff, Franz..._

The phone she pulls from her coat pocket blurs in and out, she can’t read the dials, Kaden is missing, _her brother is missing, oh God--_

She presses the redial button and hopes for the best. 

“Lucy, where are you?” Andrew half-yells into the phone. That’s right, she’d called to make sure he was home and could watch Kaden while she went over to Meghan’s house. “Dad and Papa have been looking everywhere for you two.” 

“I don’t-- the walking park, I think. We were almost home...” She’s got nothing, just an explosion of pain, no details, none at all, she keeps searching frantically and only comes up empty-handed. She stumbles to her feet, sliding her free hand up the tree. “Where are you?” 

“Coming down the street,” he tells her, slightly breathless. He’s running, she realizes. Andrew _never_ runs, he says he’s constitutionally opposed to exercise, but he’s running, sprinting even by the sound of it.

“Kaden’s gone Andrew, oh my God, _oh my God_ \--” 

“Take it easy, I’m almost there.” She shakes her head to try and clear the fog but it just makes things worse, and she tilts again, falling back down in front of the tree, the phone slipping from her hand. She closes her eyes and tries to breathe. 

There’s a shuffle, the scuffing sound of feet on pavement, and then, “Lucy.” 

She drags her eyes open. Andrew is crouched in front of her, huffing from exertion, eyes wide behind his tilted glasses, hair a disheveled mess. “He’s _gone_ , Andrew. I lost him.” 

“He was _taken_ from you,” Andrew corrects fiercely. “And we’re going to get him back.” 

 

.

Their parents show up less than ten minutes later, with both Franz and the police in tow; Lucy has never been happier to see the severe expressions on their faces. She’s still crouched by the tree but before she can so much as sort her feet out they’re next to her, Dad carefully shifting his fingers through her hair, Papa scanning the area for clues. “I’m sorry,” she says pathetically, suddenly terrified and unable to explain why. 

“Hush,” her father says, and surprises her by pulling her away from her Dad to hide her face against his chest like she used to do when she was little. And though it makes her head thump in agony, though she knows it’s wasting valuable time, though it _horrifies_ her beyond all reason, she can’t help but burst into hot, sniffley tears.

“What happened?” her father asks, and she tries to pull in the air to say something, but she realizes he isn’t talking to her. Instead Andrew recites everything like he was there the whole time, then starts theorizing on the hows and whys and wherefores, things she hadn’t even been aware of before but once he announced she knew were true. The police were silent around them, listening intently. 

“Where’s Monica?” she asks, once Andrew has wound down. 

“With your uncle,” her papa says. He pushes her back gently. “Let your dad finish looking at your head.” 

She turns back to her dad, whose face is carefully showing nothing but the most genuine concern. He’s not as good at it as her papa, though, and she can tell he’s panicked, terrified. The guilt that burns through her is so hot she shudders. 

“Sorry Lucy, just hang in there,” Dad apologizes, misinterpreting, and she sniffles, wanting to explain but all too aware if she opens her mouth she’ll start crying again. She sneaks a glance at Andrew, who is crouched a few feet away, head turned sideways to look under a bush. 

“Why is this happening?” her dad asks, voice low and steady, his fingers gentle in her hair. She looks up at him but he’s staring at her father, and she can’t turn her head to see him too. He doesn’t say anything, but whatever look is on his face is enough to satisfy her dad, who looks back down at her. “You need to go to the hospital with Franz just to make sure they didn’t do any serious damage.” 

She nods, miserable, and her dad looks up. “Andrew, go with your sister.” 

“But--”

“ _Now_.” 

Andrew straightens up from his crouch and comes back over to them, shoving his hands in his pockets impatiently. Her parents stand and help her up, and she tries not to cling to her dad too obviously. Once she’s up Franz is by her side in a second, carefully taking her weight, solemn but solid in that comforting way he always has. Both her parents kiss her gently on the forehead, each looking torn in their own, unique ways. “Call us the second you arrive,” Papa orders, and Franz nods. 

They watch from the sidewalk -- and she can tell papa’s hand is clenched in the back of dad’s coat -- as the cab Lucy, Andrew and Franz piled into pulls away.   
“We have to go to the docks,” Andrew says in the silence. 

It takes Lucy a second to absorb what he’s saying, she’s so wrapped up in her own misery and fear. “Why?”

“Because _that’s where they took him,_ Lucy, they’ve got him somewhere by the docks.” 

“How do you know this?” Franz asks, the same tone that has endeared him to all the kids -- he _always_ listens to them like their opinion matters, even Kaden. 

“Boot prints, positioning of the assailants prior to their attack, the way they hit you, time of day, location--” He pulls his right hand out of his pocket, holding up a scrap of cloth. “And this.” 

“What is it?” Lucy asks.

“A scrap of someone’s uniform, the first thug who hit you, not the one who took Kaden.”

Lucy is pretty good at observing people the way their father has taught them, but she’s got no patience for the forensic examination part, and most of those ‘lessons’ skim right over her head while she thinks of new ways to get Eddie Lewis to notice her.   
She doesn’t ask for elaboration, just accepts that there’s a logical reason Andrew thinks this is evidence proves their brother is being held at the docks. “Okay, fine, but why didn’t you tell Dad and Papa?”

“Didn’t you hear them? That wasn’t a random attack last year, and it wasn’t some random protester who came after Monica six months ago. They know this isn’t a typical kidnapping. Someone’s targeting them, targeting _us_ to get to them. ” 

She sucks in a breath; the memories of both events are still emblazoned in her mind. “Andrew, why didn’t you tell them where to go?” 

Andrew looks at her, his eyes huge. “Because nothing could stop them from running right in, and it’s a trap.” 

.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Lucy answers, after several moments that do nothing but make her more desperate. She has to fix this, she has to get her brother back. She can’t face that expression on her dad’s face again, she just _can’t._

“No, we need to go to the A&E first,” Andrew counters. She stares at him in confusion and he has the nerve to stare back like he has no idea how much he _hates_ hospital, or the totally embarrassing lengths he’ll go to avoid it. When she makes a face at him he adds, “He hit you really hard, Lucy.” He frowns, as though he’s just realized that’s a bad thing. “I’m the only person allowed to hit you.” 

“Wow, that’s almost nice,” she says. “Thanks, Dork.”

He makes the same face back at her, but with his stupid hair and his stupid expression it doesn’t work as well. “Sure thing, Pickle.” It almost makes her smile. Franz looks down at them approvingly.

The way the admissions nurse at the A&E ushers them right in with no wait makes it really unsurprising to find Elizabeth standing by an empty exam room. Monica’s presence, however, is a complete surprise. “Are you okay?” she asks, rushing over to Lucy to hug her. 

Lucy nods. “It’s just a bump, I’m okay. Listen,” she lets go to lean down and whisper, “we’re going to get Kaden ourselves.”

Monica instantly looks worried. “What happened to Dad and Papa?”

“Nothing, they’re just -- not prepared. We need to do it,” Andrew answers. He glances over at Elizabeth, who hasn’t looked up from her Blackberry since giving Lucy a quick once over and smiling assuredly. “You don’t have to come, we won’t blame you.” 

“No, I want to go!” Monica says, then glances at Elizabeth, who hasn’t seemed to notice her outburst. “He’s my brother too,” she says fiercely. 

“Okay, it’s settled,” Lucy says, glancing between her siblings. “We’ll do it together.” They nod at her and she stands up straight. 

“Lucille?” She looks to where a nurse is gesturing towards a wheelchair. “Just a quick check, dearie, and we’ll send you on your way.” The nurse isn’t lying, and after twenty-five minutes and a CT scan they’re being ushered out the door with assurances Lucy isn’t bleeding into her skull, even though that’s _exactly_ the way it feels. 

Franz makes a phone call reporting the news, and hands Lucy the phone before they’re out of the lobby. “Your father.” 

“Go home and lay down,” her father orders, somehow knowing she’s on the line even though she hasn’t yet said a word. 

Lucy frowns into the phone. “I’m okay, Papa, it’s just a headache--”

“You know where the paracetamol is.” He sounds busy, and annoyed, which Lucy’s learned means he’s very, very upset. “I’m serious, Lucille. No friends, no texting. No one’s to leave the house unless it’s on fire. Tell Andrew he’s not to pester you.” 

“I will, but Papa--”

“We’ll be home with your brother as soon as possible,” he says, and hangs up. Lucy sighs. 

Elizabeth offers them the car but they insist on the cab, climbing in with an honestly earned sense of solemnity. It isn’t until they’re around the corner that Andrew tells the cabbie, “Change of plans.” 

“Your parents will not approve of this,” Franz says. Monica looks between them all, waiting to see what happens, her glances at Lucy invariably worried. 

“It’s _Kaden_ ,” Lucy pleads. 

Franz looks at her for exactly four seconds, then says to the cabbie, “We’ll pay double if you make it in the next ten minutes.” 

.

The Riverside South development still has about a year's worth of work left, but from the outside you wouldn't know -- it's all reflective glass and reinforced steel. It stands like a giant, a resting monster on the edge of the Thames that Lucy never liked _before_ it was housing her kidnapped baby brother. She can’t stomach the idea that something could have happened to him, it feels like her insides are wound up around her throat. She looks over at Andrew as the cab stops some distance away. "What are we supposed to do now?"

Andrew looks around. "Um, well... it's a class three building and there's no way they've finished with the pre-cast hollowcore units past the tenth floor, not with the way they've been dragging their arses on the project, and they'd want to keep Kaden away from prying eyes and easy escape routes so.... west entrance. But that's what Papa would do, so that can't be the best way in....we’ll go south east." He frowns when he sees their faces. "What?"

Lucy rolls her eyes, and then regrets it as her head screams at her. "How do we get _in_ the south east entrance?"

"Leave that to me,” Franz says, and they all look up. Lucy forgets sometimes that Franz isn't just their bodyguard-slash-cook-slash-tutor-slash-chauffeur-slash whatever else he needs to do that day; forgets that Franz is the only person who nods like he genuinely understands when Dad starts talking about blacked out military records. The look on his face now is quite the reminder.

They climb out of the cab and follow Franz, ducking down when he gestures, scurrying behind bushes and cars and then a row of toilet tents that make them all gag. After ten minutes of feeling like the world's most inept spies Franz makes a 'stay here' gesture and takes off. The kids stare, wide-eyed, as he disappears around a corner.

Lucy can only take the silence for about forty seconds. "Why are they doing this?" she whispers to Andrew.

He shrugs, frustrated. "I don't know. I mean, people are always after Dad and Papa," he says unconcernedly, "but not like this."

"Why not?" Monica asks from next to Lucy.

"Because," Andrew answers shortly. "They know we’re off limits."

"Oh,” Monica says, then after a pause, "Everyone?"

"Yes, of course ever--" Andrew freezes. "Oh."

"What? 'Oh' what?" Lucy asks.

"I know who took Kaden!" Andrew says, and looks distinctly proud.

It makes Lucy want to deck him. "Are you bloody going to make us guess?"

Before he can answer Monica's phone vibrates; she pulls it out of her pocket and blinks in surprise at the display, then answers. "It's Franz. He says in ten seconds to run thirty meters... then go left around a truck, then another left fifteen meters after that... and he'll be waiting." She pulls the phone down. "He hung up."

"This is insane,” Lucy says.

"Our ten seconds are up,” Andrew says, and they all take off.

They hurl themselves down the designated path, awkward and thumping. Lucy has half a thought that they should all be completely embarrassed; they have none of the studied poise of their parents, who Lucy has watched go chasing after criminals while looking like real life superheroes. For goodness' sake, ahead of her Andrew looks more than anything like an overgrown troll, his feet and hands far too big for the rest of him.

When they spot Franz standing just inside a tunneled entrance they speed up, and as they approach he waves them on past, until they're leaning against a dark corridor, gasping for air. There are three guards on the ground, none of whom look like they're going to get up any time soon. "Way to go," Andrew gasps out admiringly. Franz shrugs.

They pull themselves together and start down the corridor after him, construction signs everywhere, tape and plastic sheeting instead of walls and doors. None of the turns they take make any sense to her, but Andrew and Franz seem to have some idea of where to go next, and eventually the sound of voices around the next corner heralds their success.

"And just how long are we supposed to wait 'ere?" one voice says, and Lucy starts silently as it brings a flash of pain and fear. She knew that voice. _"Shame to mess up that pretty little face."_ She knew what his fist felt like against her skull as well. Monica grabs a hold of her arm and Lucy tries not to burst into tears.

"Until we hear otherwise, okay?" The second voice sounds older than the first, and distracted. "Can't believe you gave 'im a fucking torch..."

Franz turns to the three of them and jumps into a series of charade-like motions, based off the simple code their parents have drilled into them a million times. He does it twice, just to make sure, kisses each of them on the tops of their heads, smiles, and then takes off around the corner. The sound of gunfire is deafening.

The kids stare at each other, silently using their fingers to count with each other -- ten, eleven, twelve - until there's a thunder of footsteps and yelling and cursing, horrible cursing that would make their Papa scowl, stomping away in the opposite direction. 

"He'll be okay," Monica says, half to herself. Lucy nods. 

"Of course he will be." Andrew scowls. "He'll be _fine_." They all look back to their fingers, and Lucy tells herself the sudden silence is a _good_ thing.

Twenty more seconds, and Andrew swallows, whispers at his sisters, "Let's go." He pokes his head around the corner, then waves them to follow him.

The space looks like a warehouse, empty and cold, but there are various doorways, some empty, some closed. "Where is he?" Lucy whispers. "How are we supposed to find him?"

Andrew looks around, wide-eyed. "I don't--"

Everyone freezes, because there's a muffled sound being amplified by the room's emptiness. It's crying, it's their brother, they've found him and _someone's hurt him and he's crying_. They take off, split up by instinct, running from one closed door to the next. Lucy hears herself whispering Kaden's name over and over again but doesn't stop, couldn't even if she wanted to. The third door she opens is for an empty storage room, and in the middle of it is her baby brother.

"Kaden!" He jumps about a mile and bursts into hysterical tears, awkwardly getting to his feet as fast as he can. "I'm sorry!" she tells him, running over to pick him up by the waist.  
He clings to her, legs wrapped around her middle. "Where Daddy, where's Papa?" he asks frantically, moving his arms around her neck. He looks okay, he’s not bleeding or anything so far as she can tell, and he's holding something -- a giant torch, of all things. As he moves he whacks her dead in the sore spot of her head with it, and she can’t help shrieking in surprised agony.

"Lucy!" Andrew calls, he and Monica rushing into the room. They both pause when they see Kaden, then hurry over, matching expressions of relief on their faces. "Kaden, are you okay?" Andrew asks.

"I wanna go home,” Kaden says into Lucy's neck. At the sight of all his siblings he calms down considerably, but his grip is still painfully tight.

"I know, we're leaving now,” Andrew tells him. Lucy tilts a little as her head throbs, and Andrew pulls their brother from her arms before she topples over with him. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here."

Monica tugs Lucy along by the wrist until she can see straight, and makes sure she doesn't walk into the wall (though it's a near thing). They're halfway to the entrance they came in when a blast of gunfire from the direction they’re headed in stops them in their tracks. Monica says something, and Andrew gives some kind of reply, both of which Lucy misses, too busy being dizzy and nauseous. "Where are we going?" she asks, thinking that the words sound funny in her mouth.

“Lucy,” Andrew’s saying, an odd tone to his voice.

“What?” she snaps. They don’t have time for this, and no one’s answered the bloody question.

"Lucy you look like you have the flu,” Kaden tells her.

"I'm fine. We have to go."

"Alright," Andrew says. "West entrance it is -- we'll just have to hope for the best."

"That's a terrible plan,” Lucy mumbles out. She has to keep closing her eyes to refocus them, and it's frustratingly distracting. She nearly trips over her own stupid feet when they start off, but Monica grabs her, hauls her up despite being barely up to her shoulder. "Don't worry," she says. "I've got you." 

They turn the corner and rather abruptly, without any warning at all, they’re face to face with Dad.

At least, Lucy _thinks_ it’s her dad. Maybe it’s the knot on her head, or her woozy stomach, or the double vision she’s suddenly got, but the man who tucked them into bed every night was _not_ standing in front of her. Lucy didn’t think she’d ever even _met_ this Dad, face hard as stone and about fourteen times bigger than he usually was. He fills up the entire hallway with his presence, and his _gun_ , and his unearthly, furious scowl. She isn’t scared of him, never could be, but for the first time she realizes why he has a box of awards and ribbons from the war in his and Papa’s wardrobe. Why Papa never seems to worry about taking Dad out with him on their cases, even with the limp.

Dad lets loose a string of expletives that’s going to buy them a new Playstation easily, then bodily lifts Kaden up with one arm, and shoves them all behind him with the other, all somehow without moving his gun. “You’re all grounded,” he hisses through his teeth, inching them backwards away from the gunfire. 

Lucy had figured that, knew they would be when they’d gotten into this mess, and Kaden looks over Dad’s shoulder at her mournfully, clutching the torch and Dad’s neck tightly. 

They round another corner, into an abandoned room of the warehouse used for packing of some sort, and as soon as Dad’s eased the door closed he rounds on them, eyes wild. “Christ, I cannot believe--”   
He’s angry, very angry, but as he drops to his knees and checks Kaden over Lucy recognizes her dad again in his panicked expression, his big, firm hands. “Are you alright?” he asks of the little boy, and Kaden’s lip wobbles terribly and then he’s throwing himself into Dad’s arms, sobbing brokenly.

Dad keeps a hand on Kaden’s back, soothing the shakes out of him, and checks each of them in turn. When Dad gets to her the sound she makes when he touches her head is broken and awful, like when someone accidentally steps on Gladstone’s tail. Her vision goes sideways and filmy and dark, and far away there’s movement of some kind, and Dad’s voice, and Andrew’s.

When she opens her eyes again the ground is very far away, and her face is pressed into Dad’s neck, and somehow, Andrew is holding Dad’s gun. “Shhh,” Dad whispers, and Lucy focuses enough to realize that they’re in another part of the building now, running on silent feet until Dad abruptly stops and drops them down, hiding, behind some sort of machine used for shipping, enormous and smelling of oil and metal.

Lucy is seeing three of him, his voice an echo, but she struggles to pay attention. That’s when she hears Papa’s voice. 

His words don't really break through the fog in her head but she can still hear his tone, sharp and forceful. Then she realizes Andrew's talking, and Kaden, and even Monica, her soft delivery harder to pick up. Papa’s face looms into view a moment later, furious and troubled in a way she can't really understand right now. " _Papa,_ " she says brokenly, and the sound of her own voice makes her flinch, she sounds _sloppy_ , she sounds _drunk_. Her head hurts so much it's terrifying, and she's never been good with pain anyway, pain means bad, bad things, and she really thinks she's going to be sick and _where the hell are they?_

"It's alright,” Papa says, pulling her gently against him until she feels the words more than hears them. He doesn't touch the part of her head that is thudding agony through her brain but underneath it, holding firmly at the base of her skull, and somehow that makes her feel better, eases some of the pressure and her panic all at once.

"Sherlock," she hears Dad say, and though she tries to sit up to listen it's hopeless, the words her parents exchange slipping through her fingers.

"Lucy," Papa says. "Lucy, are you listening?"

"Mhm.” She pries her eyes open and forces herself to focus.

Papa is staring down at her, a carefully neutral expression on his face. "I need to know if you can walk."

"I can walk," she mumbles -- she'd do cartwheels if it meant they were leaving. "I can."

"Come on, then,” he says. “We have to go." It's such a strange tone, it sounds like he's sorry, but what for she doesn't know. He helps her stand and takes almost all her weight when the shift makes her vision go grey and her skull start to throb again. When she can finally see she realizes Papa is carrying Kaden with his left arm and holding her with his right, Monica next to him with a hand on his elbow. Dad has taken the gun back from Andrew and is ahead of them, stepping around the machinery silently, once more someone she's not sure she's ever seen before. He doesn't look back, just beckons them to follow with one hand.

The first few steps make her reassess the walking question; her head is hurting so much she can’t focus on anything else, can't remember how to make her legs work, her feet. Her father is half-dragging her but he's so tall she can't really use him for leverage, and even she knows this isn’t going to work for long. When she feels another arm slide around her from the other side she can't turn to look, but knows it's Andrew anyway. "Thanks,” she slurs, trying to force her eyes to work correctly through sheer will-power.

"Shhh,” Andrew hisses, and tugs her along from the other side. He's still taller than her, but it's not as big a difference as it is with Papa, and she slowly lists to his side, both her hands falling on his one shoulder, her eyes pressed against them as she’s mostly given up watching where they’re going.

She's not sure how much time has passed -- she keeps missing things, it’s all so confusing -- but they seem to be making progress; she can hear cars now, traffic, water and construction noises.

It’s then she also - quiet suddenly, quite closely - hears gunshots. Her father flings his arm across her and Andrew both and shoves them against the wall; her back hits the cement and she doesn't even have time to sort out what's happening before she’s crumpling and the world goes black.

 

.

When she opens her eyes again, with a great deal of effort, it’s to her father’s furious shouting.

It isn’t Dad -- Dad who she expects to go off the rails whenever he’s mad, who’ll yell and bellow all with the worst expression in his eyes, hurt and disappointment and always, always worry. They’re all used to it, to the way Dad shows his emotions, his fear for them. It was usually as touching as it was completely exasperating. 

But _Papa_. 

Her eyes are burning, and she wishes offhand that someone would do her a favor and please prop up her eyelids with toothpicks or something. They’re so hard to keep open, and she feels foggy and things are hurting, so she lets them close again, sighing silently with relief.

She’s enough Papa’s daughter to know where she is. She smells disinfectant, and the sound of carts being rolled outside, and the beeping of machinery. It isn’t near her, which is good -- the memory of Andrew buried under all of those wires after his appendix burst was still far too fresh in everyone’s memory. Muffled but close by, Papa is, as Dad liked to say, ‘serving someone their arse’. She’s never heard him like this, not _ever_ , not even when that man tried to take pictures of them for his magazine. 

Even more startling, grandmummy’s voice answers him, waspish and aloof and lower, but just as determined, just as _angry._

She opens her eyes again at that, to Dad’s back. He’s bent over the bed next to hers, and that’s when she sees Kaden, asleep and tucked into the hospital bed next to hers and still clutching that ridiculous torch, as big as his entire head. Dad turns around then and catches her gaze, his mouth loosening from that tight, pursed line to something softer. “Lucy,” he says, and there’s a clatter from the other side of the room, and suddenly Andrew and Monica both are peeking around the curtain, twin expressions of relief on their faces.

Lucy sits up -- it’s mortifying how much help she needs, but she’s grateful for her dad’s strong arms, for his big hands. Outside, Papa makes a sound between a bellow and a scream and Lucy says, “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” Dad says, face twisted up, at the same time Andrew says, “Papa’s gone _mental_.”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Dad says again, untwisting the bandage from around her head and parting her hair to look. He touches something that doesn’t hurt quite so much as it did, which is good, but she still cringes. Dad gently re-wraps it, his hands so careful. “You’ve got a concussion Lucy, and some stitches to close the wound. Nothing is broken, you’ll just feel woozy for a few days and lightheaded until everything heals again properly.”

“They had to shave some of your hair,” Monica says tearfully, and grabs her hand tightly when Lucy gasps with horror. “It’ll be okay though, I’ll help you do your hair until it grows out some. You won’t even be able to tell.”

“My _hair_ ,” Lucy is saying, tears clogging up her throat, when her Papa bursts into the room. Grandmummy is right behind him, and Lucy has _never_ seen her Grandmum like that, taut with anger. It doesn’t hold a candle to Papa, though, who’s face is twisted up into proper fury, blotched red with his eyes standing out, startling green and full of rage. “ _Look at my children._ This is what your meddling has caused,” Papa snarls, hands in fists at his sides. 

"I am," Grandmum answers, "and I can see you scaring the daylights out of them."

Lucy's not scared, could never be scared of her father, but has to admit he _does_ look mental, leaning down into Grandmum's space with that expression. 

"Don't you _dare_ pin this on me-"

" _Sherlock_ ," Dad says loudly. Papa finally turns to look at Lucy, realizing she's awake. As soon as he does his face, his whole body changes, relaxes into someone she recognizes. "How do you feel?" he asks, the weirdly intense way he sometimes gets about things reassuring right now. It's as though he cares more about her answer than anything else in the world.

"I'm okay, I just -- what happened?" She looks around slowly, afraid of jarring her head and losing the fragile freedom from pain. "Where is Franz, why is Grandmum here?"

"Franz is just outside the door, love,” Dad says, while Papa says, "Why don't you explain your presence here, Mother?" He hurls out the words like a challenge and moves to the other side of Lucy's bed, leaning over to kiss her forehead, his giant hand on her hair. He stands up straight but keeps his hand on the top of her head, and it makes Lucy feel safe. She's way too old to crawl in his lap and hide away, but some stupid, babyish part of her wants to all the same.

Instead she lets out a small sigh of relief that Franz is okay, and glances at Andrew and Monica, who are staring between Papa and Grandmum in shock. They all knew Papa 'had issues' with Grandmum, but they've never seen them fight like this - most of the time they're exceedingly polite to each other until they think everyone has gone outside, or to their rooms, or wherever is far enough away that they can't hear the arguing.

Grandmum smiles at Lucy, no trace of anger in her face at all, just the person Lucy went to see for shopping and horseback lessons and the most amazing stories she's ever heard. Lucy's grandmum has done it all, and when they talk Lucy feels like maybe she could too. "I'm here to make sure you're okay, Lucille."

Papa harrumphs loudly, though his hand is perfectly gentle and calming, thumb stroking lightly at the crown of her head. "And the reason she was even in this situation?"

Grandmum gives Papa a cool look. "I hardly think that's appropriate--"

"Do you think any of what's happened here is _appropriate_?" her father bites out, his hand going still. "They attacked our children, _they kidnapped my son_." 

This last part he hollers; Lucy glances at Kaden, but he's still sound asleep, it's amazing. When they get home Lucy is going to ask Andrew to test just how much noise their brother can sleep through, because it's got to be some kind of record.

"Calm down, Sherlock,” Dad says, quiet but scary-firm, one of his not-to-be-questioned orders. Lucy turns just enough to look at him, but he's staring up at Papa. It's when Lucy looks past him, to where Monica has unobtrusively edged herself to Dad's side, her fingers tangled in his jumper, that she gets it. Papa seems to understand too, letting out a long, deep breath.

Grandmum likewise seems to have changed a little, seems less imposing somehow. "Despite what you think, Sherlock, I am not actually omniscient--" she starts, but Papa interrupts,"--Just perpetually manipulative-"

"--Sherlock, let her talk--"

"It's about Belgium, isn't it?" Andrew's question stops everyone, and because he's as weird as the rest of them it's only once the silence sets in that Kaden startles awake with a cry.

Her baby brother’s sob jolts everyone out of whatever reverie they’d been in. Dad immediately turns to Kaden, whose cry swings up in both pitch and strength, and Dad sits on his bed and gathers him up into his lap. “Shhh,” he tells Kaden, rocking him gently. Papa walks up the center aisle between both their beds and sits, almost as if exhausted, at Lucy’s feet. Monica immediately comes when Papa beckons her, snuggling up against his side, and Andrew hops up onto Kaden’s bed, and just like that they’re a circle, a perfect operating unit. Grandmum sits at Lucy’s other side, holding her hand behind Sherlock’s back.

Kaden’s tears taper off after a few moments, more the surprise of waking up in hospital with a needle in his arm than anything to do with fear. He cuddles Ribbit close, huffs a shaky sigh into his ugly, pilled fur. “Okay?” he asks, snuffling.

“Okay,” Dad says gently, kissing his temple. “Hurt?”

Kaden shakes his head against Dad’s collar, and in goes the thumb. Dad’s been trying to get him to stop for the longest time, but he lets him now, rocking him gently in his lap. “No hurt,” he says around his thumb, so it sounds something like _no hurth._

Geoff knocks at the open door. “Hiyo, can I come in?”

Papa beckons him forward with a sigh. “I told you, not until tomorrow.”

“Here as an official godfather, thanks,” Geoff snarks back, kissing first Lucy’s forehead right under the bandage, then going round to stroke a hand down Kaden’s baby-soft hair. He pulls Andrew under his arm with a squeeze, smiles at Monica and chucks her chin to get her to duck her head and giggle. “Everyone alright then?”

“Yeah,” Andrew replies, grinning like sunshine from under Geoff’s arm. “You missed all the action.”

“So Franz tells me,” Geoff replies, giving Papa a look Lucy doesn’t understand. “Mrs. Holmes, it’s nice to see you again. How are you?”

Grandmum, Lucy notes, has an expression on her face Lucy’s been practicing for months, elegant and refined and with a crystal clear underlining message: _you are an idiot_. “Much better to see everyone well.”

“If it was up to you this would happen on the weekly,” Papa snaps without turning to face her, and now that he’s closer Lucy can see the tension in his frame, the set of his jaw. 

“Alright, that’s _enough_ ,” Dad snaps. “Sherlock, your mother is not training our children to be operatives for the crown.”

“Isn’t she?” Sherlock demands.

Grandmum’s voice cuts through the chatter like a bell. To Lucy it’s wonderful, the way Grandmum doesn’t even have to raise her voice to get everyone’s attention. Some day she’ll figure it out how to do it herself. “Sherlock, I understand your reasoning skills are currently impeded by your quite obvious distress--” Papa scowls fiercely in Ribbit’s direction at this “--but I’m not going to say this again: I would _never_ put my grandchildren in harm’s way, not for the sake of anything.” 

Lucy looks to where Grandmum’s hand has tightened on hers, up to Grandmum’s face, the tiny but nonetheless comforting smile she sends Lucy. She means it, it’s obvious, but Lucy looks to her Papa anyway to see what he’ll do. 

He in turn shifts slightly to glance at Lucy, who tries her own hand at smiling reassuringly; really, sometimes her Papa is far too paranoid. He gives her a look she has a hard time deciphering -- defeat? No, not quite. Acceptance, maybe -- _in most individuals, acceptance can include a measure of ambivalence blah blah blah_ \-- and Papa certainly _looks_ like he’s torn. He’s still looking at her when he says, “Yes, Andrew, this is about Belgium.” 

“Yes!” Lucy looks at Andrew, who fist pumps, almost taking Geoff down with a right to his jaw in the process. “I _knew_ it, hah!” 

Dad, still holding Kaden, gives Andrew a sharp look. “And do you think that makes what you did the right decision?” 

Andrew freezes mid-gloat and then darts a look to Lucy, panicked, that all but screams _if you wanted to have some kind of relapse and divert their attention, now would be a great time to do it._

When she catches the look Papa sends her way as well she seriously considers how best to dramatically collapse. “Yes,” Papa starts, his voice deceptively calm. “Now we can get the full explanation of just _what in the bloody hell_ you were thinking when you went to play rescue spies _while suffering from a traumatic head injury_.”

“I’m sorry I hitted you, Lucy,” Kaden interrupts sleepily from his perch on Dad’s lap, brandishing his torch and almost whacking Dad in the face with it as well. “I was scared ‘cause it was dark and they were really loud, yelling and saying lots of no-no words and then there was _guns_.”

“It’s fine, Kaden, you didn’t mean to,” she answers hurriedly. Kaden knows more words than most five year-olds -- Mrs Henderson says it’s because of all his chatty relatives -- but right now she really, really wishes he would shut up. 

Dad’s eyes narrow, and Lucy is torn -- while she isn’t entirely sure she likes seeing that stranger from the warehouse in his face, she is nonetheless reassured by it. Kaden is back to sucking on his thumb, eyes half-closed against Dad’s neck, so he doesn’t push it -- but in his expression there are questions no one wants to answer right now. Tomorrow, like Papa had said.

She glances at her Papa, who is alternating his gaze between her and Andrew. “I told you both to go to the hospital. I did not _ask_ you to go traipsing around the seedier parts of London looking for your brother. Not only could you have been hurt, or worse, _killed_ , but you seriously compromised your brother’s safety. What do you think would have happened if those thugs had gotten to you first?”

“But they didn’t,” Andrew argues, because really he could not keep his mouth shut.

“But they _could_ have,” Papa answers, sharply. “Despite what you wish to believe, Andrew, you and your sister are _children_ \-- intelligent children, but children nevertheless.”

Lucy is mortally offended, but Dad cuts her off at the pass. “You’re not getting it,” he says, with much more patience than Papa when he uses those same words. “It isn’t about treating you like kids, it’s a fact. You both weigh less than a hundred pounds, your muscle mass is still far below that of a full grown man, let alone those thugs. They would have grabbed you and used you as blackmail. This past year, all those times -- that man who tried to grab Monica when Uncle Mycroft left you at school, the one who hit Andrew -- they’ve all been kidnapping attempts. We’ve been under surveillance for a while now.”

“But... but you, you let me take Kaden to the park!” Lucy shrills, even though it makes her head throb and her pulse go off behind her eyes. “You let me leave with him!”

“Yes, I did, and that’s my fault,” Dad answers steadily. “That doesn’t make what you and Andrew did any less serious, Lucille.”

She freezes -- _Lucille_ from her _Dad_ \-- and Andrew says, “But we found Kaden. And we saved the day!”

“At the expense of your safety, and the safety of both your sisters, and of your little brother,” Papa replies. “Men like those who took Kaden have no problem removing whatever obstacle stands in the way of their bottom line. They would have killed all of you in a second if it meant getting what they wanted, and that is wholly unacceptable.”

If Papa’s voice hadn’t shifted in the middle of that last word, almost as if... as if it had _cracked_... Lucy would have argued some more. She rarely loses arguments when it comes to her parents. But now, she blinks and something funny happens in her brain -- things shifts around, like a TV trying to get a reception, and suddenly visual cues she’d been missing fall into place. Her papa’s haggard face and tight expression, his pinched and bloodless lips. Her dad’s red eyes, and the way he’s holding Kaden, the way he’s leaning forward towards her. 

They’d been bad men, who’d taken Kaden. Terrifyingly bad. And she gets it, with painful clarity. “Nothing happened,” she says, and reaches out to squeeze Papa’s hand, tug it close. “ _Nothing happened_. We’re okay, and the baby. Everyone is okay.”

Dad frowns at her, sharply, an expression she recognizes and takes comfort in. Andrew is finally looking contrite, but Lucy ignores him -- he still hasn’t figured it out. _Boys_. Always just a little bit behind. “I think what you did was very brave,” Dad says, after a bit, “but it doesn’t make it any less reckless or stupid. All three of you are grounded – yes, including you, Monica --but it’s going to be up to you to think on what you’ve done, and as a group decide the severity of your grounding. When we get home, we’ll discuss it.” 

He stands with Kaden, who’s fallen right back to sleep, and tucks him back into bed, Ribbit under his arm and the blanket over his shoulders. “Adella, could I please speak to you outside?”

 

.

Sherlock watches his mother and John step out of the room without comment. He should likely follow but finds he really can't, not with the oldest three staring at him, wide-eyed and worried; not with his youngest curled up, shockingly small, in a hospital bed that threatens to swallow him whole. Lestrade takes the opportunity to say goodnight to the kids as well, reiterating his inevitable return tomorrow. Sherlock snaps that he should take his damn time as he walks out the door, but the irritant just waves him off.

"Are you really mad at us?" Lucy asks once the door is closed, her father and grandmother's voices only indistinct murmurs. Her hand is still holding Sherlock's and she tugs on it unconsciously, like she wants to drag him closer. She's always been the tactile one in their family, has never been afraid to throw herself at Sherlock or John or any of her siblings if the mood struck. When she was little and Sherlock fell into dark, pitiless moods it didn't even slow her down -- she'd run right up to him, impatient and brash and full of questions.

This afternoon someone had nearly fractured her skull and left her to bleed alone in a park where anything, _anything_ could have happened to her. When he'd carried her out of the warehouse four hours ago she'd been nearly unconscious and crying inconsolably, hopeless tears as she incoherently begged him to make it stop. Right now she's confused, overwhelmed, more scared than she'd ever admit, and still in some pain, which is wholly unacceptable.

"Not at the moment," he answers honestly, using his free hand to tap at her nursing button. "Though the answer may be different tomorrow."

Andrew is watching him carefully, completely unaware of how young he looks; Monica is carefully sat next to Sherlock, stubbornly overcoming her brain's own instinct to get as much space between her and unhappy adults -- _any_ unhappy adults -- as possible. He doesn't acknowledge it, with her that will only make things worse, but he marks it all the same. He's never met anyone willing to work as hard as her, not found that kind of perseverance in most adults, nevermind a twelve year old who spent the first nine years of her life being told not to bother. The girl is a bloody wonder.

Lucy meanwhile has started staring down at their hands, a lost expression on her face. "I had to fix it, Papa. He was gone and I couldn't just -- I _had_ to find him."

"I know,” he tells her calmly, much more calmly than he feels capable of. "But you could have done that without putting yourselves in danger too."

She doesn't answer, but she clearly understands.

John and Sherlock's mother return with the nurse -- his mother to say goodnight, her eyes promising an extended, entirely unwanted visit to the house in the near future -- John to fuss over Lucy and argue about how much medication to give her. She tumbles back into sleep almost as soon as the drugs hit, the frustrated, pained expression on her face slipping away.

He and John engage in a short but intense debate over whether to take the other two home or try to find cots for everyone; and if they're going home who they're going with. In the end Sherlock takes Andrew and Monica back because they're exhausted, and while Andrew is doing his best to pretend he's not hating every second he's in hospital, the stress lines on his face are really more than Sherlock can deal with right now. They kiss John goodnight, let him hug them a little longer than usual, a little tighter. When they move to the door Sherlock leans over, presses his forehead against John's. "It's alright,” he says, while John squeezes his eyes shut. He never wants to see the look on John’s face when they realized Kaden was missing again; he’s not sure either of them would survive it. "It _is_." 

John doesn’t answer -- not because he doesn’t wish to, Sherlock knows, but because he’s incapable. When he reaches up to kiss him, Sherlock simply runs his fingers through John’s hair, presses him close for a moment. “I’ll call you when we get back.”

John nods, and Sherlock turns around to follow Andrew and Monica to the elevators.

He only glances back once, and thinks that John has never looked so small, standing there in the doorway to the hospital room.


End file.
